Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

There’s this quote by Marcel Proust—you may have seen it embroidered on a pillow in a bookstore or floating somewhere on social media in a sepia background with birds or whatever—that says:

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

And look, I’ll admit: the first few times I encountered it, I sort of nodded, thought, “Yeah, okay, deep,” and moved on. It felt like one of those elegant little truisms that makes you feel wise just for reading it, even if you don’t quite know what it means.

But then again, I’ve spent over seven decades stumbling, strumming, flying, failing, learning—basically improvising my way through this curious thing we call life—and somewhere along that jagged trail, the meaning behind that quote hit me like a harmonica riff that starts soft and then sucker-punches you right in the ribs.

Let me explain.

Here is the thing they don’t tell you in travel brochures: you can fly halfway across the world and still be stuck inside the same mental furniture. You can be standing in front of the Taj Mahal and still be worried about your hotel’s Wi-Fi password.

The world doesn’t magically open up to you just because you showed up. It’s not a vending machine. It requires something more uncomfortable: presence. Vulnerability. New eyes.

I don’t mean to get all mystical. But this idea of “new eyes”—it’s not just poetic. It’s practical. It’s philosophical. The Stoics, for example, weren’t particularly chatty, but they were laser-focused on perception. Epictetus basically said: It’s not events that mess us up, it’s our interpretation of them.

Same with Zen Buddhism. You know those monks who spend hours arranging rocks or sweeping leaves? They’re not nuts. They’re practicing attention. Because when you actually see a leaf—like really see it—it’s kind of a miracle. Or at least not boring. And I can’t tell you how many times in my life I’ve missed the metaphorical leaf because I was too busy planning the next thing.

So now, in the so-called “twilight years” (though I don’t feel like I’m fading, more like distilling), I’ve stopped chasing novelty and started courting awareness. I look longer. I listen more. I laugh louder, and let silence stretch out without feeling like I need to fill it.

I once believed discovery was about accumulation—passport stamps, stories, scars. But Proust was right. The world doesn’t change. You do. You have to. Otherwise, what’s the point?

These days, I find myself noticing things I used to walk right past. A stranger’s kindness. The weight of memory in an old song. The way light shifts on my living room wall at 4 p.m. It’s all discovery, if I let it be.

So if you’re reading this and still think the next trip, the next job, the next relationship will finally give you That Big Breakthrough—you might be half-right. It might. But odds are, the real voyage is waiting for you on your own street, in your own breath, in the mirror you avoid when you’re in a hurry. All it asks is that you show up with new eyes.